The Wrong Stuff td-125 Read online

  He turned the page from the spider story. The article he was after was on the next page. Careful to follow the lines, he snipped out the story, putting it with the other clippings.

  It took him nearly forty-five minutes to go through all the papers and magazines. When he finished, he took the thick stack of clippings he'd saved and disappeared inside his room, rattling his box of thumbtacks. When he reappeared ten minutes later, he was humming happily to himself.

  As he walked past the phone, it rang. Remo scooped it up, winging the nearly empty box of tacks across the room. Without a single rattle it landed in the still open drawer.

  "Assassins to the stars. For the right price, the celebrity's ice."

  "Remo, please come to my office," Harold Smith's lemony voice announced.

  "Don't you wanna ask about this week's specials?" Remo said. "With every hit we'll throw in the TV anchormen or aging brat packer of your choice."

  "My office," Smith repeated before severing the connection.

  His cheerful mood evaporating, Remo hung up the phone. "I've gotta go see Smith," he announced glumly.

  Across the room the Master of Sinanju was already rising to his feet. His golden kimono flowered like an opening parachute before settling around his bony ankles.

  "I will accompany you," he pronounced.

  "He didn't ask for you."

  "He did not have to," Chiun replied. "My place is at my Emperor's side." He swept over to the door. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that Howard's been sitting in on these meetings lately?" Remo ventured.

  As he drew open the door, the old man turned, an innocent eyebrow arched onto his parchment forehead. "Did he mention that the Regent would be in attendance? In that case the last one to Smith's office is a Japanese."

  With that, he flounced out into the basement hall. Remo shook his head morosely. "I hope Smitty's stocked up on barf bags," he muttered. Hands in his pockets, he trudged out into the hall.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER Remo and Chiun were standing in Smith's office. Mark Howard was sitting on a plain wooden chair that he'd pulled up beside Smith's broad desk.

  The day was overcast. Dark clouds hovered above the whitecapped waters of Long Island Sound Smith had just finished telling Remo why he had summoned him. Remo was shaking his head in disbelief.

  "You've gotta be kidding," he scoffed.

  "I am not," the CURE director replied. "It will get you away from Folcroft and Rye. Even though the Anson situation is quieting down, I am not comfortable with your being here during a potential security problem. A problem, I might add, that is entirely your doing."

  "But that spider's a fake, Smitty," Remo insisted. "It's just a Halloween bogeyman the Post made up to scare people into buying papers, like Bat Boy or Lyndon LaRouche."

  "Mark is not so certain," Smith replied.

  Remo glared at Howard. "This was his idea?" he asked in a tone that chilled the stale office air.

  "Well, yes," Howard replied hesitantly. "I think that there might be something more to this."

  "Earth to the Little Prince. I'm not Leonard Nimoy and this ain't In Search Of. If you want to look for Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, do it on your own time."

  Standing on the worn carpet beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "I have heard of this Bighoof creature," he dismissed. "It does not exist."

  "No kidding," Remo said dryly.

  "You Americans made it up because you did not have your own yeti," the old man said mysteriously. His pronunciation of the word as well as his odd tone caught Remo's attention.

  "You have something you want to share with the rest of the class?" Remo asked.

  Chiun's face grew serious. "I will tell you later of the long winter Master Shiko spent hunting this beast in Tibet," he said in Korean, his voice low with ancient shame.

  Remo's curiosity was piqued. Before he could press further, Smith interrupted.

  "We don't know what exactly is going on in Florida," the CURE director said. "However, there have been a number of what seem on the surface to be credible sightings, as well as a few deaths."

  "This thing is killing people?" Remo asked, frowning.

  "Three so far," Howard offered.

  Remo gave the young man a withering look. Howard reacted uneasily to the attention.

  "Hardly enough to warrant putting you in the field under normal circumstances," Smith quickly interjected. "But your actions have made a diversion a practical matter at this time. And, as I indicated, Mark has a hunch there is something more here. I trust his instincts."

  "Glad one of us does," Remo muttered. He considered, exhaling loudly. "Ah, what the hell. I'll go. Order me up a plane ticket."

  The Master of Sinanju quickly shook his aged head. "Purchase two, Emperor," he insisted firmly. "If there are accolades to be bestowed on the discoverer of this new animal, I refuse to allow this glory hog to get sole credit."

  "Very well," Smith said. Leaning forward, he began typing commands into the hidden keyboard that was buried beneath the surface of his desk.

  "Let's test how good your hunches are, kid," Remo said to Howard.

  As Smith typed, he shot the briefest of glances at his young assistant. Jaw clenching, he returned to his task. The shared look of the two CURE directors was lost on Remo.

  "Let us hasten, Remo," Chiun proclaimed. "And keep your eyes peeled for Sherpas."

  "What the hell would Sherpas be doing in Florida?"

  "One never knows where those thieving goat herders will turn up," Chiun replied ominously. "You will understand when I tell you the tale of Master Shiko." Whirling, he marched for the door.

  "Great," Remo said flatly. "I'll have to remember to pack my earplugs along with a jumbo can of Black Flag."

  Hands in his pockets, he trailed the old man out of the office.

  Chapter 9

  Remo knew he'd be spared the tale of Master Shiko on the flight down to Florida as soon as they boarded the plane in New York. He noted with concern that a large portion of the coach section was filled with Asian men in business suits.

  In the neighborhood where Chiun and Remo had lived for ten years there had been a high percentage of Asians-particularly Vietnamese. Remo had found that since their house had burned down, the Master of Sinanju's normal day-to-day racism had magnified perceptibly. He had somehow transferred a measure of blame for his loss to members of the ethnically mixed community in which they'd lived.

  "Remo," the Master of Sinanju urged, tugging the back of Remo's T-shirt, "this plane is filled with Vietnamese."

  "I noticed. For the sake of my sanity, can we just pretend it isn't?" Remo begged.

  "What kind of patriotic American are you?" the Master of Sinanju asked, appalled.

  "What the hell's that got to do with anything?"

  "You are at war with these dog gobblers, that's what," Chiun said. His clear voice rang throughout the plane as they made their way up the aisle. A few heads lifted, faces already scowling at the wizened Korean who swept through their midst in his shimmering green kimono with the red dragon accents.

  "We're not at war," Remo whispered.

  Chiun didn't hear. "These must be spies," he concluded firmly. "We must phone the Octagon at once."

  "That's Pentagon," Remo hissed. "And that war ended almost thirty years ago."

  "Ah-hah. They make peace one day only to infiltrate your nation the next. They are worse even than the treacherous Sherpas, for Sherpas do not chase the family pet around the kitchen with a knife and fork. When you finish with the Octagon, phone the dog pound to warn them that there are ravenous Vietnamese running loose through the land."

  The looks they'd been getting from the other passengers were becoming increasingly hostile.

  "You wanna keep your voice down?" Remo whispered. At their seats now, he quickly sat down.

  The Master of Sinanju frowned deeply. "I am shocked, Remo," he scolded. "I never took you for an appeaser. If none will speak in defense of this nation, then I
will."

  "Chiun-" Remo pleaded.

  But the old man had already spun away.

  Chiun raised his arms high. Kimono sleeves slipped down, revealing bony arms.

  "Mud dwellers of the Mekong!" the Master of Sinanju announced. "Since you are Vietnamese, you are no doubt on some evil mission for your Hanoi lords. As a secret representative of this land, I command you to abandon whatever devious plot you are hatching and surrender yourselves to the proper authorities the instant this air vehicle lands. You will do this or bear the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju."

  He opened the corner of his mouth to Remo. "Did I leave anything out?" he asked under his breath. By now Remo was slouched low in his seat and hiding behind an in-flight magazine.

  "Just sit down," he implored, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Turning once more to the now very angry crowd, Chiun declared, "My son has told me to inform you that a kennel is not a buffet."

  As the murmurs rose, loud and rancorous, the Master of Sinanju leaned over and slapped Remo on the knee. "Move your fat white feet," he commanded.

  Scurrying over his pupil, he settled into the seat above the left wing.

  "Thanks for making me part of the floor show," Remo growled.

  The flight attendants had been either at the door or in the galley until now and had thus missed the action. Remo was grateful when the preflight activity took the focus away from him and the Master of Sinanju.

  Once they were in the air, a friendly flight attendant came up the aisle. Since it was the Halloween season, she offered passengers a bowl filled to the brim with orange-and-yellow candy corn. Remo was surprised when the Master of Sinanju took two big handfuls. He was less surprised when the old Korean spent the rest of the flight pegging them at the heads of unsuspecting Vietnamese passengers.

  When they landed in Orlando, those Asians unfortunate enough to have gotten on this flight rushed the exits, rubbing heads and crushing candy corn beneath their heels.

  A shudder ran through the bottleneck at the door when Chiun and Remo approached. With fearful glances the crowd parted, hands firmly clasped to stinging scalps.

  Chiun waded through the throng. "My son the unpatriotic American might not respect his culture," he sniffed as he passed, "but you may not have any of my Yankee Poodle Pie."

  Remo was so grateful to finally be off the plane he kept his head down and his mouth screwed shut.

  In the terminal they passed a busy bookstore. "Just a sec," Remo said to Chiun before ducking inside. He emerged two minutes later with a fresh stack of newspapers. As they walked, Remo slipped a pair of sewing scissors he'd just bought into his pocket. Though curious, Chiun refrained from comment as the two men made their way to the car rental.

  In the parking lot Remo dumped the papers into the back seat of their rental.

  According to Smith, the first spider sighting had taken place in the small town of Yuletide, twenty miles east of Orlando. Remo knew he should be worried when he saw the sign that welcomed tourists into town. On it, a pair of snowmen waved to passing cars. The border of the sign was decorated with plastic reindeer antlers.

  Even though Halloween was less than a week away, there wasn't a pumpkin or ghost to be seen in town. The houses of Yuletide were hung with flashing red-and-green lights. Plastic Santas sat on lush green lawns.

  "Why do I suddenly feel like Jack Skellington?" Remo asked as he eyed the Christmas decorations. In the passenger side of the car, the Master of Sinanju studied the festive landscape through suspicious slits.

  "Have you people extended the season devoted to that busybody carpenter?" the old man asked.

  "Not that I know of," Remo said. "Christmas season starts in August at the mall, but it usually doesn't spill out onto front lawns until November. They must take the Yuletide name seriously."

  He parked the car and the two of them struck off on foot. As they walked, they saw parking meters shaped like candy canes and park benches that looked like holly-covered yule logs.

  "No wonder the suicide rate goes up during the holidays," Remo said as they passed a papier-mache igloo. Around it, a family of painted penguins in scarfs and stocking hats were arranged in a frozen snowball fight.

  The place they were looking for was on the corner. Other than a faded paper reindeer taped to the window, Santa's Package Store looked like a typical liquor store. The bell over the door tinkled as Remo and Chiun entered.

  The grubby proprietor was sitting behind the grimy counter. He looked up sharply at the door. His tense face relaxed when he saw the two men who had just come inside.

  "FBI," Remo announced. Walking to the counter, he offered the man his fake ID. "We're looking into last week's robbery."

  The liquor store owner looked from Remo to Chiun. "Why's the FBI care?" he asked suspiciously. "Local cops think I'm crazy."

  "From what I've seen of this town, you all got crack pipes as stocking stuffers," Remo said. "So what's the story?"

  The man rubbed the beard stubble on his chin. "You better be on the level," he warned. "Now that there's been other cases, I'm getting calls to do all kinds of TV." He leaned forward on his stool. "It was last Friday night," he began. "Almost closing time. I was reading right here when I heard the bell over the door. When I looked up, I saw it."

  "The spider," Remo said, his voice flat.

  "Yeah," said the shopkeeper. He shuddered at the memory. "Thing was huge. Big as the doorway. It came crawling across the floor to the counter. I fell off my stool I was so scared. I'm lying back here on the floor when it reaches around with these big furry black legs and rips the cash drawer out of the register. By the time I got back up, it was gone."

  Remo pointed to a security camera that was mounted high on the wall behind the counter. "What about that?"

  "That's the weird part," the man explained. "After it took the cash drawer, it reached up and touched the camera. I don't know what it did, but when I checked the tape, there wasn't anything on it. It was all blank. Like it had been magnetized or something."

  The store owner didn't see the deeply dubious expression on Remo's face.

  Chiun had wandered over to the end of the nearest aisle. The old man was squatting next to an end-cap display that was piled high with cases of beer.

  "What's with him?" the liquor store owner asked.

  "He's a special consultant," Remo said. "The Bureau brings him in for the big stuff. Alien abductions, spider attacks, spontaneous telephone combustions."

  The man was studying Chiun. "Just like the 'C-Files,'" he grunted. "I like that show."

  "Not me," Remo said. The Master of Sinanju beckoned him with a long fingernail. "They've been stealing plots from us for years and we haven't seen dime one." He left the store owner, crossing over to Chiun.

  "What have you got, Little Father?"

  "There," the old Korean said, pointing to the floor. The beer cases were stacked on a low wooden palette. Following the Master of Sinanju's unfurled finger, Remo saw something small and black peeking out from between the dirty slats. It was as big around as a quarter and rested on an inch-thick pile of dust. Stooping, Remo picked up the object, holding it between thumb and forefinger. By the look of it, it had been chipped off something larger. The edges were jagged.

  When he ran a finger across the dull black surface, Remo's face registered surprise. "What the hell?" Puzzled, he handed the fragment to Chiun.

  When the old man touched the metal, he frowned. "There is no friction," the Master of Sinanju said. Remo nodded. He had barely felt the fragment. It was as if his finger was gliding over nothing at all. "You think it's spider spoor?" Remo asked.

  "I do not know what it is." Chiun's weathered face was troubled. "Nor do I find comfort in the unknown."

  The fragment had come from somewhere. And whatever it was, neither of them had encountered it before.

  "Me, either," Remo said as he took the strange piece of metal back from Chiun. "I'll send it up to Smitty. Maybe he can figure out
what it is."

  He slipped the fragment into his pocket.

  He took a final look around the dingy store. Something had happened here. He still doubted the owner's story, but the man seemed sure of what he was saying. And the metal fragment only added to the larger mystery.

  When they left Santa's Package Store a moment later, Remo's face was troubled.

  Chapter 10

  "I was astonished at how awful it was. I mean, it really was that bad. Shockingly so."

  Every word was a knife in Duncan Allen's heart. But in spite of the inhuman callousness of his critic, he had no choice but to sit there and take it. As he fidgeted in the overstuffed chair in the dusty old living room in Bangor, Maine, he gave a sickly, lopsided smile to the evil little man who stood in judgment above him.

  "I bought it assuming you'd have improved over the years. You know, since back when I bought those first five manuscripts from you. But I wish I'd looked at it sooner. I'll do my best, but I don't know if it's salvageable at all. Of course, you won't be getting a bonus for this shit."

  And at this, Stewart McQueen laughed. It was a mirthless laugh that was all smarmy condescension. That his laugh would be devoid of joviality wasn't a surprise. McQueen was the most humorless human being Duncan Allen had ever met. As an individual far superior to all things that walked, crawled or flew, Stewart McQueen didn't have time for a sense of humor. The world-famous novelist was too busy standing astride the very peak of a fiction writer's Mount Olympus, glaring down contemptuously at the pathetic mortals who scurried upon the Earth below.

  "You haven't learned a thing since you started writing for me," McQueen said. He was a slight man with a too perfect beard. When he spoke, his tongue had a hard time negotiating around his protruding rabbit's teeth.

  "But you're still buying my next book?" Allen asked, trying to keep the desperate pleading from his voice. "After the other two books you bought, you promised you'd take Boiling Point to the publisher for me."

  Another sneering laugh. "That's not gonna happen now," Stewart McQueen said dismissively.

  And that was that. With that one phrase, Duncan Allen felt the world collapse beneath his worn-out, three-year-old sneakers. Mind whirling, he tumbled into the dark abyss.